Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
I lay my head on his chest and focus on the movie, which is some terrible Christmas rom-com. Trent doesn't even try to pretend he cares about it. He spends the entire time tracing circles on my thigh, or kissing my temple, or pulling me so close I'm basically on top of him.
After a while, I work up the courage to ask him what I really want to know.
"Why don't you want to retire?"
He shrugs, but there's something sad in his eyes. "Hockey's all I've ever known. I'm not honestly sure who I am if I'm not playing."
"Trying to figure out where you belong is a bitch," I say with a sigh.
"Yeah," he says softly. "It is. But you know what?" He glances over at me, his expression open and earnest. "I think I'm finally figuring it out."
Those butterflies are hard at work in my stomach again, and I don't know how to respond. Mostly because I think maybe I'm figuring it out too, and that's far more intense than I'm mentally prepared to handle while watching a Christmas movie.
"Maybe you should coach," I tease, changing the subject. "I hear Little League is a vicious battleground."
He laughs. "Are you trying to get me sent to prison for punching a ref, Sunshine? Because that's pretty much how that would work out."
"Yeah, that tracks," I say, earning a grin from him.
"What's your plan after you leave professional sports in the rearview?" he asks. "Or do you plan to stick with the team forever?"
"I haven't thought that far ahead," I admit. "I just wanted to make it through the season without getting fired."
He brushes his nose against my cheek. "You're not going anywhere. I'll make sure of it, even if I have to keep faking injuries right up until the end."
He's teasing when he says it, but I don't miss the promise in his words, either.
"My hero," I whisper.
"Fuck yeah."
I try to focus on the movie again. I really do. But Trent's fingers keep inching higher and higher on my thigh. At first, I think maybe he's just being sweet and attentive. But after five minutes of deliberate circles and random slow drags of his fingertips, I realize he is not, in fact, being sweet. He's being a menace.
I squirm, pretending I'm still absorbed in the movie. That pretense goes out the window when he hauls me onto his lap.
"Trent," I groan.
"You looked uncomfortable," he rumbles, his voice low and smug.
"You're the world's least subtle cuddler," I mutter, unable to fight a smile.
"Not a cuddler," he says. "I'm a human weighted blanket."
"Weighted blankets don't have erections," I point out, because, no, that is not a hockey stick wedged against my ass.
He just shrugs, not even a little embarrassed. "Yours does."
I'm not sure what to say. I'm not sure what to do, either. I'm not even wearing real pants, just his old hockey tee and some way-too-big boxers that keep trying to slide off my ass. The situation is rapidly deteriorating into definite pink slip territory. Again.
I glance back at the movie, but that doesn't help. The couple on screen is making out like it's the end of the world. And Trent's hand is inching steadily higher up my thigh. He's not in a rush. If anything, he's drawing this out to torture me.
I glance at him. His eyes are fixed on my mouth, like he's imagining exactly what he wants to do to it.
He catches me staring and smirks, then drops his lips to my ear.
"You keep looking at me like that, and I'll have to do something about it."
I should tell him to cool it. I should remind him that we're supposed to be at a party in a few hours, and if he keeps this up, I'll have a visible limp. I should be demanding that he get some rest after yesterday's fudge debacle.
But I don't. I don't even try.
Instead, I lean into him, pressing my lips to his jaw.
He growls. Actually, growls. The sound vibrates through my whole body, shooting straight for my clit.
He threads his hands under my shirt, his palms splaying across my stomach. He moves slow, like he wants to memorize every inch of skin. When his fingers find my nipple, I arch into him without thinking.
He pinches, gentle at first, then harder.
I moan louder than I mean to.
He bites my neck, muffling his own groan.
On the TV, the movie couple is having sex in front of a fake fireplace. The heroine is moaning in slow motion, and I'm trying not to do the same thing on Trent's lap.
He slides his hand up again, skating the edge of my hip, his touch greedy and hot. He knows exactly how to turn me inside out. I know this because my panties—okay, his boxers, but still—are already soaked through.
"You're not watching the movie," I whisper, which is the lamest comment in the history of foreplay, but it's all I've got.